BOSS LEVEL

John

“You’re a good guy,” his sister announced late one Saturday afternoon, as though he were being awarded a bronze metal. Had he not had an hour to kill before his meeting with the President, he would have made an excuse. He was in no mood to talk to anyone who knew him. It had been two weeks, but sooner or later, he knew—he just knew—that they would be able to read everything that had happened on his face.

The violets on the table were real, their petals bruised by curious hands. The cafe was more upmarket than the last time. The white-painted interior featured plants whose tendrils spilled from hanging gold dishes. An organised jungle.

“I’m a good guy,” he told the violets, gently enough that they wouldn’t suffer any further injury. “And why don’t you tell me about my good wife?” 

“I’m not your spy.”

“You’re my sister. You were my sister before you were sisters-in-law,”

Natsuko’s nervous spoon tinkling paused only to be replaced by a two-toned hum.

“Even when we played those dumb games at the arcade,” she said, “you were always the good guy. Remember? Are you getting enough sleep? You look tired.”

He was tired. He wasn’t sleeping. And he was in no mood for nostalgic reminiscing about jangling machines and avatars with no concept of pain. Ever since his wife’s admission—which had been maddeningly devoid of detail—John had felt as though his stomach, his lungs, his real-life chest had sustained combat damage. 

‘There’s nothing to talk about. It’s all over,’ she had said. ‘It was no one.’ He didn’t know what to believe. He wanted to believe what she said, but the way she said it left him questioning everything late into the night. At the office. On the train. During his lunch breaks. 

No One. 

Over. 

It had to be one of those poser artistic types who were always hanging around her like a bad smell. Even the lecturers were a gang of predators. He couldn’t be angry with Ana. She was buying Pieces. She was in therapy. She was vulnerable. She had been vulnerable, and he had left. Some slimy guy had taken advantage. It was unbearable. 

He lied about having deadlines. After a ‘work’ day, he would duck out for a dinner break. He ate at the same place every night: one that took solo diners who punched in vending machine orders for beer and noodles and karaage chicken. There was no conversation, just slurping and murmured acknowledgements and the electronic bell on the door. It was a place where eating was just a necessity. Like an in-game tavern: a place for a gaggle of losers to build up energy and move on. 

After dinner came a stop at the convenience store to pick up corn snacks and cans of Orion: Okinawa’s finest. A holiday beer. A pair of teens, a boy and a girl, worked that shift. They were bored and mechanical with customers but giggly with each other. Teen romance. Doomed.

In the office, when the lights dimmed and the cleaners arrived, John put on his headset and opened Overlords. The same every night. And now he was breaking necks and records. He clocked more hours on Overlords per day than he had at school. He was grinding missions, splintering forests, and wrecking boulders to uncover enemies and their treasure. His arsenal now held four of the five golden weapons: the spirit bow, the dragon spear, the guardian’s axe, and the mage’s scythe. For several days, he had spent more time working towards the final weapon than sleeping. He needed the hero’s blade. 

Even as he sat across from Natsuko, he thought of it: the golden sword. When he closed his eyes these days, even for a moment, he saw Fuujin’s heaving back. He heard the loop of battle music.

His sister looked weary. John couldn’t bring himself to tell her everything. Once he spoke the words, they would be true. He would be everything everyone expected of him. Not a hero, but a fool. The loser. Less than a No One.

“What’s new with you?” he tried. “Hanging at arcades with Mr. J-Pop?”

Natsuko looked down at her lap. “You think I’m a joke, don’t you?”

John opened his mouth, then shut it again quickly, and gave a terse head shake.

“Kai and I, like, I thought we were in the same place, you know? That we both didn’t want to… grow up?” Natsuko looked John in the eye. “I’m just not ready to be like our parents. All bored and sad. I’m still, like, into everything— everything. I want to be like you and travel and meet amazing people. I want to fall in love a hundred times a day. I’m not ready to give that up.” She sighed. “But I think Kai is. I think it’s over. He took a trip. Said he was going to visit his parents down south or something. He stopped texting back. I can take a hint.” She shrugged her shoulders and feigned ambivalence. 

His kid sister. John swallowed down the urge to tell her everything. I know how it feels. I know about being cut adrift.

“Hey,” he said. “You never know. What if there’s bad reception where he is?”

“Doubt it,” she scoffed. “Pretty sure they have wi-fi on Bijushima.”

“Bijushima?” John repeated, swallowing once, twice, like a drowning man. “No One?”

“Huh?”

“You mean Bijushima, where I went that winter vacation? With the gallery? That Bijushima?”

“With the art? Yeah. I thought he would take me one day, but—”

John stood then. His gold chair screeched against the artful floor and smacked into a waitress, who spilled tea and started apologising. John did not apologise. John would not apologise to anyone. Ever again. In his life.

“Where is he now?” he demanded.

“Huh?”

“The boyfriend.”

“John, we’re not in touch. Can you sit? You’re scaring people.”

“Where does he live? Or work? Some club, was it?”

It was. Natsuko scrawled the address on a coffee loyalty card with two punches on it. John snatched it. Then he left. He would be early for his appointment with the President, the man whose schedule filled up months in advance. It would be disruptive. Intrusive. Obnoxious. And he didn’t fucking care.

It was after hours when John Kutsuki pushed into the executive office and found it empty. The room was large enough to house a small aircraft. He paused. In the semi-dark it seemed to have grown. At the President’s desk, which that faced the doorway and was flanked by large windows, an antique library-style desk lamp glowed steadily. Blue light from a computer screen glinted over surrounding objects. John looked over these unguarded artefacts greedily. All were trophies in various guises. On a side table were framed photos of the Company President shaking hands with various heads of state. There were corporate gifts. Outrageous things. Items that should by rights be on public display or returned to families. A classic vespa, beautifully polished, utterly unridden; original Pieces, one of which John identified as a Kusama; a taxidermied Tiger caught in the pose of a predator rounding on its kill. 

And there. 

There, directly behind the Presidential chair, was the Edo-period samurai armour, still worn by the shadow-faced mannequin with no concept of the honour bestowed upon it. The lacquered platelets of the chest-piece were laced together with woven silk, the helmet was embossed with a gold phoenix motif, and the iron mask bore a horsehair moustache. It was exquisite. Above it, elegantly balanced on a two-pronged wall mount, was the sword, sheathed.

There was no one there to stop him. John took a shaky breath, walked to the side of the desk, pressed his heel into the carpet and rolled his shoe over the invisible line that separated President from peasant. He took another step, wincing, and discovered...nothing. He had done it. He had breached the inner sanctum. Before he lost his nerve, he strode around and behind the chair and grabbed the handle of the sword. It was surprisingly light. There should have been locks, alarms, lasers, and yet—nothing. No giant boulder. No pendulum of machetes. Just his white, trembling hand staining the handle of a relic with sweat.

“I thought it was a knock-off, originally.” John jumped and fumbled the sword at the unexpected voice. “But one of the Board members, a history buff, arranged a full appraisal. Turns out it’s an original.”

The President stood in the doorway, tucking a handkerchief into his breast pocket. “What is your plan, Mr. Kutsuki?”

John held tight to the sword, turning so that it was a horizontal bar between himself and the President. A warning. John slowly pulled the handle and cover apart to show a glint of silver. The President appeared bemused.

“You said—” John began, not knowing where he was heading. “You said you wouldn’t tell her about it all. Neither of us would. You said it was best.” He pulled the blade out further. It shrieked against its confines.

“Would you care to sit down?”

“No!”

“Very well. I have your packet somewhere in here—” He patted his jacket. “Aha! There you go.” John was presented with a standard business envelope thick with— well, he could guess without opening it.

John did not drop the sword. Instead, he revealed a further two inches, noting that his father-in-law now was flicking his eyes over the naked blade.

The President  tossed the envelope onto the desk.

“What is your plan? You want to lop off the head of a hydra?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” John gritted out. 

The president sat back into a chair reserved for his guests. He smiled and laced his fingers. Nothing, not even the threat of death, was overwhelming to him. John found it enraging.

“Because,” said the President, “an organisation does not die when you cut off the head. Kanto Electric—and the broader group—is simply not that kind of a creature. We’re in homes, lives, politician’s pockets. Cut one arm and another two grow back. There’s no true heart.”

“I don’t care about the company.”

“Oh, but you should.” The President laughed, “Really, I don’t think there’s a single point you could hit and win. You could try going for the Prime Minister, I suppose, if you’re mad enough to try.”

“She’s like this because of you!” John howled. “All the pain. All the—you made her like this.”

“Ana?” The president tipped his head in a manner that might have been sweet on a nicer old man. “Well, that’s entirely the company’s fault too.”

“Bullshit.” John ripped the blade from the sheath and held the sword’s handle with two unsteady hands. He pointed the tip at his father-in-law’s throat. 

“It is very difficult to cut off a head,” his father-in-law said, “notwithstanding the brightness of a blade. The spine is solid, wrapped with thick muscle. It can’t be done cleanly. This isn’t the movies.”

The thought of having to hack at a dying man’s neck while he gurgled incoherent, bloody cries for mercy made John want to vomit. The sword was too heavy. It was all too much.

“What’s wrong with Ana?” his father-in-law asked.

“Don’t pretend to care now,” John snarled.

The President merely blinked at the accusation. His posture had not faltered since sinking into the chair.

“She just…” He didn’t know how to explain. “You let her go to Bijushima. Anything could have happened. Then something did. With—with someone else. She wouldn’t be this way if you—”

“I think you’ve said enough,” the President said, standing. He picked up the envelope and pressed it against John’s chest. “You take this. Take the sword as a souvenir. But don’t ever come back into my office.”

John’s jittering mind considered whether there were an easier way—a stab between the ribs, perhaps? A thrust into the soft tissues of the stomach? It was then that he noticed the two men in the doorway. Security. The many arms.

He put the sword in its sheath. He took the envelope. As he exited, he turned and threw it up over the heads of the security guards. They remained in place as ¥10,000 notes rained down on them like unsuspecting game show winners.